


Apotheosis by Noyade

by Isdeine



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Mental Illness, Other, PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 21:11:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9460541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isdeine/pseuds/Isdeine
Summary: A brief look at what it is like for Shiro to deal with the recurring memories of his past; and how those refuse to leave him, leaving the paladin in a state of constant unrest.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Apotheosis: The highest point in the development of something; culmination, climax.   
> Noyade: Execution carried out by drowning.   
> This is, a drowning of the senses, and of course, Shiro in some part fears that.. that was his apotheosis, his highest point.   
> This is a personal depiction, there are creative choices made solely by my own hand and of course are not canon, I hope you enjoy this brief insight, and if you like it, let me know, maybe there could be more chapters to come.

The noise of the bustling spaceship woke him up again.

It wasn’t like he was fully asleep, considering the rapid flashes of twisted memories invading his consciousness did not allow him to have a good night’s rest.

But he was used to it.

Not used to it in the case that he could ignore them, or see them coming; unfortunately, these situations were never the case for his conflicted mind- but he was used to them in the sense that they were so frequent, he didn’t find it fair to complain about them.

So the only one who really dealt with them was himself.

 

He looked over at the clock- it was 2:30 in the morning, according to _Altean_ time, which used ticks. But it was still similar- and still absurdly early.

Still, he knew better than to try to go to sleep.

Instead, he sat up from the bed, the white tuft on his hair almost covering his vision; another gift from his time with the Galra that, at least, he had gotten accustomed to.

His vision was not clouded- quite on the contrary, it was crystal clear. He walks off from the bed, putting his prosthetic on as he gets off- and continues to dress up. He slowly gets on his body armour, considering that the last thing he wanted to do is to find himself underprepared at the face of an emergency.

 

He looked over to the clock again. It was 2:45.

 

This was going to be a long morning.

 

A sigh follows, following the cliché of the human mind of exhausting itself faster when time passes slowly. A concept that is, in reality, still a figment of the mind, considering that time passes at the same rate- even though in space, that wasn’t the case. But he couldn’t trust his mind either.

 

With armour on, time to spare, and a ship to explore, Takashi leaves the bunk, his feet leading him to the path of what could be a responsible thing to do, should it not wake anyone up. Considering it was 3 AM, it seemed like a good time to train.

 

Every step is running away.

Every step is not making it for the finish line.

Every step is afraid of what the finish line may look like.

 

There’s a sense of a prohibited action as he sneaks away. Prohibited by common sense- every normal law of sound reason would suggest for him to rest. If not sleeping, then just calm resting.

 

He can never manage to do so.

The nightmares wake up the fire. The fire that lights up in his soul; the one that used to drive him when he was called the _Champion._

He needs to fan it off; to get rid of it. And resting, as much as he would like, does not help- it keeps the thoughts going, which only helps the fire grow.

It’s a helpful yet dangerous fire. A fire he can only allow himself to light up when it’s in favour of his team.

 

The training deck is empty, as he had expected; the only sounds are the continuing energy of the castle, and the different bustling overlapping thoughts of his mind. _Shiro_ takes a deep breath, the exhale acting as a temporary fan for the fire. A brisk walk inside, shuts the door and sets him in motion.

 

Setting for level nine, the paladin sets himself in position. The battle drone, new one since the crystal incident retaliates almost immediately, giving space to a quick dodge from Shiro to start the training. His hand lights up almost immediately, probably fuelled by the memories of past regrets he had only managed to acknowledge in the present.

 

This time, he tries to focus on agility- while the hand was certainly powerful, and was overall a very useful and definitive weapon, it would not be beneficial if he didn’t improve the other areas of his fighting style. Just like his days back in the Garrison, his motto was the same: there’s always something to improve. Something to watch out for. Something to make a better pilot- or a better man out of you.

 

As soon as the bot comes for him again, he manages to hit first- his hand getting close to the bot’s equivalent of a jaw, the left hand still on guard for any of the repercussions. However, it’s when he notices, that his hand is almost burning the bot’s external surface, that he steps back, throwing him off-guard, getting him on the ground.

 

The thought brings him back, for a split second, to the arena. To one of the countless battles he was forced to be a part of.

 

But was he really forced? Was that really the truth?

 

The monster heads for him, the towering creature approaching him with fast speed. There’s a sword lunging for him- _a sword?_

He rolls over to avoid the hit, the harsh floor feeling… colder than what he remembers. _Colder?_

He doesn’t have time to question the temperature when the sword comes at him again, but this time- he covers himself with his arm, the metallic part of it clashing with the intruder sword.

“Why is there a-“

And as he maintains focus on that cover, he’s back on reality again.

The cold floor of the castle and the swift movements of the training bot, intruders in his suffocating memories, abruptly bring Takashi back.

 

He gets up instantly, a jump situating him back on his fighting stance, ready for whatever may come his way.

 

The signature diagonal move hits the bot; although this time, the hand doesn’t burn or faze through its surface. Instead, it’s just a cold, hard hit, kind of like the wake-ups from the journeys to the past disguised as nightmares.

 

How could he be a leader, if he didn’t have control over himself?

Maybe-

Maybe that was the reason his bond with the Black Lion was so severed. He couldn’t even allow himself to forgive the memories haunting him- how could Takashi Shirogane even dream of a sane mind?

And in such case, how could his mind connect to something more?

 

He evades another possible hit, this time, managing to get behind the bot, and throwing him off its stance, sending it to the ground, which it hits with a loud thud.

 

The thud still manages to revolve and disturb the senses and thoughts connected to his conscious _and_ subconscious, the sound resulting to affect him as something more familiar than he expected.

 

Sounds like monsters falling; but it also sounds like innocent beings falling. There is no difference; the act is the same, and the effect is the same in him- bringing him on a road of memories he didn’t plan to drive through.

 

The sudden intrusion of thoughts leaves him breathless, suffocating not only the body, but the mind and the soul; they cloud his vision and cancel the rest of his senses; the magenta, fluorescent tones of the Galra’s scheme keep trying to replace the greyish-purple tones of his present.

 

_You are a Paladin of Voltron, Takashi._

 

It was weird when he directed it to a set of letters that didn’t seem to have a meaning. But ‘ _Shiro’_ seemed to have a far better connotation than the alternative.

 

Shiro looks around as the bot deactivates, as part of the training system.

The hand slowly returns to the white polished colour of its carcass, as his ragged breath slowly paces and becomes calmer.

 

He was safe. He was trying to _save_ the universe. Whatever memories that came, should not matter or interfere in his current objective.

 

Yet they still stayed, as shadows of the topics we’d rather not open the door to; hindering the process of a man trying to heal his mind. The thoughts remain, the memories refusing to be forgotten; clinging to the memories of the senses of power.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
